


Headlong Courage

by KitMiller



Series: Martin & Luke [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 1900s, Betaed, Courage, Developing Relationship, Historical, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Meet-Cute, Period-Typical Homophobia, University, detailed content warnings in author's note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:35:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25893751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitMiller/pseuds/KitMiller
Summary: “Yes?” Martin said, feeling uncharacteristically shy.“You appear to have a book that I need,” the stranger said, motioning to one of the half dozen poetry anthologies on Martin’s desk. His mouth quirked in a half-smile. “That book there is the only one in this blasted library that has anything by Abraham Cowley in it.”An encounter at the university library.
Relationships: Martin Nicholls/Samuel Thackery, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Series: Martin & Luke [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1761223
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This work is set in the early 1900’s and thus features attitudes and terminology appropriate to the period which are considered offensive, harmful, or hurtful today. Concrete content warnings for this work as a whole are casual and internalised homophobia. Detailed content warnings for each chapters are provided when applicable. Reader discretion is advised.

Martin tapped his pen on the paper absently. Every now and then, he abandoned the tapping to instead chew on it. Dimly, he was aware of the other students in the library; a cough, a sigh, the soft drag of books being pulled from shelves. But his attention was fully taken up by  _ The Complete Works of Ben Johnson, _ currently open on a scene from  _ Volpone. _

Which was why, when someone approached his desk, he didn’t notice until that someone softly said, “Excuse me?”

Martin looked up. The interrupter was about his age and had hair the colour of honey. He wore a shirt with the sleeves rolled up all the way past his elbows and the top buttons undone, and a knitted, blue waistcoat. “Yes?” Martin said, feeling uncharacteristically shy.

“You appear to have a book that I need,” the stranger said, motioning to one of the half dozen poetry anthologies on Martin’s desk. His mouth quirked in a half-smile. “That book there is the only one in this blasted library that has anything by Abraham Cowley in it.”

“Oh, by all means.” Martin handed the book over. The stranger’s hands were covered in black ink stains. “You’re writing a paper on Cowley then, I presume?” he asked. Part of him didn’t want this golden-haired and ink-fingered stranger to leave just yet. 

“Him and some contemporaries.” His voice was so pleasant Martin was sure he could listen to it forever. “And you?” Not waiting for a reply, the stranger tucked the anthology under one arm and leaned closer to read the title of the book open in front of Martin. 

Martin felt heat creep up his neck at this sudden proximity. “My tutor is of the opinion that Johnson’s works are superior to Shakespeare’s,” he explained. 

The stranger turned his head in interest; his eyes were the warmest brown Martin had ever seen. There were ink stains on his face, too. Martin imagined him leaning his head on his hand as he wrote.

He had to clear his throat before he could continue. “I can’t say I agree.”

“Is your tutor Whishaw, by any chance?” asked the stranger.

Grimacing, Martin nodded.

The stranger let out a laugh. The way he was standing let the sun shine golden on his face. “My condolences.”

Martin gave a tight smile. He wanted to say something in response, anything to keep the conversation going, though nothing came to mind. The stranger, too, looked like there was something he wanted to say. 

But in the end, he just straightened. “Well, best not to keep you,” he said. “I would rather hate to be responsible for you incurring Whishaw’s wrath.”

“Thank you. And good luck with your paper!”

“Thank you.” The stranger lifted the anthology in salute, and just like that, he had left.

Martin sat back. He eyed  _ The Complete Works of Ben Johnson _ without seeing it. He rubbed his hands over his face, in disappointment that the conversation had been so short, in anger that he had neglected to ask the stranger’s name. He kept his hands over his eyes for a moment. To any passers-by, he would in all likelihood appear simply overworked; in actuality, he was gnawing on the unwelcome realisation that something he had thought long since buried was rising again. 

He shook himself and picked up his pen. He was not keen on incurring Whishaw’s wrath, either.

For days, Martin could not stop thinking of ink-stained skin and golden hair.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to the content warnings for the work as a whole, this chapter also features mentions of corporal punishment motivated by homophobia in a school setting. Reader discretion is advised.

Technically, it was forbidden to enter the university’s garden without permission. But, since it provided a convenient shortcut for the faculty for Literature, everybody did it anyway.

Today was a perfect summer day, with a clear blue sky and temperatures just on the comfortable side of warm. Here in the garden, the rumble of the surrounding town was nearly inaudible; certainly less audible than the busy droning of the bees in the lavender.

Martin paid it no heed, however, and hurried along the gravel path. His thoughts were an absent jumble of the paper he was writing, of the letters from his parents that were waiting for him in his room, or what he was going to have for lunch, and the lecture on poetry he was already late for. 

As he rounded a corner, though, he stopped dead in his tracks. There, on a bench tucked between two blooming rose bushes, sat the golden-haired stranger from the library. He once again had rolled up his sleeves, and a brown tweed jacket hung heedlessly over an armrest. He had his elbows on his knees and was reading a book. 

Martin stood frozen. All week, he had not been able to stop thinking about him, had been reminded of him when he refilled the ink in his pen, when he spread honey on his bread, every time there was talk of poetry. And cursed himself, every time, that he had not asked his name. 

If the stranger were a woman, there would be no issue with this… this… interest Martin had in him. There would be no issue with going up to the stranger and taking him to a café and talking to him so that he was a stranger no longer. 

Martin still remembered the beating the headmaster had doled out on him when he had, at the age of fifteen, tried to kiss one of the other schoolboys.

He shook his head, angry at himself; Christ almighty, he was thinking of kissing without even knowing his name. 

He hefted his leather bag and briskly walked up to the bench. “Hello.”

The stranger looked up and smiled. “Hello again.”

Martin gestured to the book, bound in black linen. “Still Cowley?”

The stranger laughed out loud. “No, this is not for university. I don’t think my betters would approve!” He showed Martin the cover; it had a silver imprint of a sailing ship. The title on the spine read  _ The Riddle of the Sands. _

Martin smiled. “No, I don’t think they would. Far too recent.”

The stranger snorted. “Not to mention it’s popular.” He paused. “Speaking of our betters, how did Whishaw take your essay?”

Martin winced. “Not well. I have to rewrite it. I wish I knew what he wants to hear; I had thought it quite good.”

“Hm.” The stranger’s fingers tapped on the book cover. He stayed silent for a rather long time, long enough that Martin was beginning to think he had misread everything, and was about to excuse himself. But then, looking down on the book, the stranger said, “Whishaw was my tutor last term, and I believe I have him figured out.” He glanced up at Martin, and Martin couldn’t be sure whether he imagined the faint blush rising in his cheeks or not. “I could help you rewrite the essay.” The stranger cleared his throat. “If you liked me to.”

Martin smiled, his heart beating in his throat in giddy anticipation. “It would help a great deal. I’d be very grateful!” He held out his hand. “Martin Nicholls. I believe we have forgotten to introduce each other.”

The stranger laughed quietly and stood. He shook Martin’s hand; his own was warm and strong. “Samuel Thackery. Charmed.”

“Likewise,” Martin replied. They let go and Martin flexed his hand by his side. “Would you be able to meet tonight?” he asked, riding the wave of headlong courage that had got him this far. 

“I have no plans that would prevent me,” replied Samuel. “Shall we meet at the library at five o’clock?”

“That is perfect. I look forward to it!”

“And me.” Samuel made the suggestion of a bow that also doubled as a half-step back. “Until tonight, then.”

“Yes,” Martin replied. “Until then.” He gave Samuel one last smile, then he turned around and continued on his way to a lecture on poetry that he had already missed most of. When he reached the small gate, he turned around. 

He didn’t catch Samuel looking, but he did catch him very hastily looking back down on his book. Martin could have burst with joy. He unlatched the gate, and left the garden with a bounce in his step.


	3. Three

Martin knew he was a homosexual, and he had accepted long ago that it was an inextricable part of who he was. That had been easy.

It had been much, much harder to accept that he could never have the love and companionship that he yearned for. Some days, when he saw his brother with his girl friend, and helpless jealousy for what they had turned into impotent rage that he could never have it, he wasn’t even sure if he had succeeded yet. 

Men were dangerous. And so Martin kept to himself, because not giving in to the deeply rooted yearning was the most difficult thing Martin knew, and he didn’t believe he was strong enough to resist it once he let his guard down.

So the question was: why was it different with Sammy?

Because that’s how close they had become, that, when Martin had accidentally blurted out the nickname he had bestowed on him in the privacy of his own mind, Sammy had laughed and said it was a pity there was no easy nickname he could give Martin in return. He had tried to come up with one for about a week and then given up. With a sigh, he had thrown an arm around Martin’s shoulders and declared, “You’ll just have to trust me when I say that I care quite a great deal about you.” 

Martin had never felt so exalted and terrified at the same time.

Sammy was dangerous. 

So why was Martin at this café with him for the fourth time this week, listening to him enthuse over the mystery novels he loved so much? Why was he smiling while Sammy laid out the plot of _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ to him, and why did he laugh so loudly at Sammy’s jokes about how no academic in his right mind would spare it even a passing thought?

Why had he let himself get so close, close enough to feel the heat and know he was going to get burned?

_I care quite a great deal about you._

The words were echoing in Martin’s head like the fragment of a song, like a line of poetry, like a prayer.

“...would you?”

Martin jerked his head up. He hadn’t paid attention to what Sammy was saying. “Sorry, what?”

“I forgot my wallet. Would you mind covering for me?” Sammy _had_ to know by now what that smile did to Martin. 

Martin looked around; the café was empty, and the waiter was pushing chairs in and wiping tables. When Martin checked his watch, he discovered that the café had closed ten minutes ago. It wouldn’t be the first time they got kicked out and it probably wouldn’t be the last, either. 

Martin put his watch away and got out his wallet. When he opened it, his stomach dropped to his feet. “I don’t have enough for the both of us,” he told Sammy, not really doing a good job of concealing his panic. 

But Sammy had been watching the waiter, who in turn had just gathered up a set of dirty dishes and now made his way into the kitchen. The moment the door fell to, Sammy shot upright, grabbed Martin’s hand, and ran out of the café.

It was all Martin could do to stay on his feet as Sammy dragged him out onto the lamplit street. He had both their hats in one hand, though no recollection of taking them. Sammy continued down the pavement, not letting go of Martin’s hand until they rounded a corner. He leaned against a lamp post, put his hand into his pockets, and laughed.

Martin grinned. “You realise we can never go back now?” He held out Sammy’s hat to him.

Sammy took it, laughing again. “We’ll just pay the next time we’re there.” He put his hat on, crossed his ankles, and looked up at the featureless sky. 

A tram screeched to a halt next to them, and Martin was pushed closer to Sammy by the sudden crowd. An especially irate gentleman squeezed past Sammy, jostling him and making him lose his already precarious balance. Without thinking, Martin grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back upright, and suddenly their faces were very close to one another.

For a moment, they just looked. Sammy’s eyes glittered in the orange light. There was stubble on his jaw, and he had a mole next to his mouth. Martin reached out, unthinking, wanting to touch it, only realising where and who they were when the tram jolted back into motion. 

Martin stepped back, unconsciously flexing his hand.

Sammy was blinking. He had not broken his gaze with Martin, but now he looked around like someone waking from a dream, at the people moving past, at the literal spotlight they were under. He nodded to himself, and looked back at Martin with a rueful smile.

“You left one of your books in my room when you were there last,” Martin said before he was aware he was speaking. 

Sammy blinked again, this time in dumbstruck surprise. 

Martin held his gaze, his heart beating so loud in his ears he could barely hear his own words. “Come pick it up tomorrow at noon.” That was when his landlady would be out.

Sammy opened his mouth. Then closed it again. “I —” He stopped once more and shook himself. Then he looked back at Martin, and his eyes burned so intensely Martin just knew that Sammy could see right through him.

And Martin stood there, letting himself be seen.

_I care quite a great deal about you._

“Yes,” Sammy said. “I’ll be there.”

Men were dangerous. Sammy was dangerous.

But Martin didn’t want to live a life without danger.


	4. Four

Every time there were footsteps on the stairwell, Martin’s breath hitched in his throat, and when the steps inevitably moved past his door, the sudden rush of tension released made him feel like he was about to throw up.

Martin glanced at the clock on the mantle. Ten minutes until twelve. He groaned and curled up in the armchair, fisting his hands in his hair. Stupid. _Stupid_. What had he got himself into? Really, what did he think he was going to do? Look Sammy in his beautiful golden-brown eyes and tell him, ‘I’m in love with you’? _Really_? He may as well call the police on himself, save Sammy the trip to the station. 

Martin squeezed his eyes shut. He tightened his fists until it hurt and then some more. Then he uncurled and stared up at the ceiling. Dusty cobwebs hung in one corner. He dug his nails into his palm, his leg, his thumb, leaving behind tiny, crescent dents. He’d made a plan, he’d followed the plan. Don’t get too close lest he got burned. How had he lost his grip so badly that now all he could do was watch his life go up in flames anyway?

And now here he was, simultaneously dreading and yearning for the clock to strike twelve.

This was too risky. This was just too bloody risky, and Martin had no way out of it now. This wasn’t one of his anonymous encounters in alleyways and behind pubs, in the shadow where he couldn’t even see the face of the man he was having sex with; it was safer that way, with neither of them knowing who the other was. There was less of a chance of a bitter ex or an irate family member going to the police. 

He should have just stuck to those, and not run around daring to hope that there was more waiting for him than fleeting meetings that, in the end, only swapped out one kind of dissatisfaction with another. He should have just stuck to the mature, sane knowledge that love, real love, was not a thing he was ever going to get. He should have accepted that and moved on. 

He jumped when outside, the church bells started clamouring. His heart beat even faster, which he hadn’t thought possible. He got up on shaking legs without even knowing what it was that he wanted to do. 

He left his small room and headed towards the kitchen — he needed something to drink, something ice cold to calm down. As he passed the front door, he imagined he heard something outside, but it was nigh drowned by the church bells still thundering across the street. 

Martin stopped and stared at the door. Surely he’d just imagined it. But no, here it came again, and this time Martin was sure it was a knock. 

He yanked the door open and Sammy, hand still raised, looked at him. “Ah, so you did hear me,” he said by way of greeting.

“Barely,” Martin replied. 

“Blimey, they’re loud, aren’t they?” Sammy jerked his head in the direction of the church. 

“Well, the rent’s not so high because of them,” Martin replied.

They stood and looked at one another for a moment.

Sammy said, “Aren’t you going to —”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Martin hastily stepped aside and let him in. The hallway was so narrow he had to practically plaster himself against the wall to allow Sammy through. He closed the door and motioned to his room. 

Sammy wordlessly lifted his coat and hat in question, and Martin took them to hang them up, but now he was blocking Sammy’s way, so he went to stand in the kitchen doorway to make room, and then he finally hung up Sammy’s hat and coat — trying not to think of how the coat collar smelled of his shaving soap — and followed him. 

Sammy, looking out the window, turned when Martin came in. Neither of them said anything for a moment or two. “You said you had something for me?” Sammy finally asked. His eyes were big and full of anticipation.

When Martin looked at him, as he was standing there, in the middle of Martin’s bedroom, cheeks flushed and breathing a little heavily, surely from the long climb up the staircase, something fell away within him and revealed his raw, pounding heart. “Yes,” Martin said. “This.” He took Sammy's warm cheeks in his hands and kissed him.

Their noses squished against one another. The mole next to Sammy’s mouth was a little bump under Martin’s fingers. Sammy’s lips tasted sugary. 

Sammy didn’t kiss him back. 

Martin let go and took a step backwards, sucking in air through his teeth, trying not to gasp. 

Sammy stared at him. He had one hand slightly raised, but in a way like he didn't know if he wanted to touch Martin or his own lips. “I didn’t know,” he said hoarsely.

Martin spread his hands, resigned. All his courage had left him like the receding tide, leaving behind barren disappointment. “Well, now you do. I don’t —” he took a deep breath against the tears gathering — “I won’t stop you from walking away. Just — if you still care for me even a little, please don’t go to the police?”

He had barely finished the sentence when Sammy grabbed his face and kissed him.

Martin’s hands automatically fell onto Sammy’s hips. It was a good thing, too, because his legs would surely have given out. Sammy was _kissing him_. 

By the time Sammy took his lips off Martin’s — which was after several minutes, but still far too soon — Martin was wholly and completely on fire. 

“I’m sorry,” Sammy said quietly, and Martin felt his eyes nearly pop out of his skull, because what the hell was Sammy apologising for?, but then Sammy continued, “You took me completely by surprise. I didn’t know you were also —” Sammy gestured between them awkwardly.

Martin smirked. His hands were still resting on Sammy’s hips. And he wasn’t going to let go anytime soon, thank you very much, not now that he was allowed to hold him like this. “What, ‘wearing green carnations’?”

“Yes.” Sammy laughed and Martin grinned. Sammy looked at him, his eyes soft like liquid honey. He brushed one knuckle along Martin’s cheek. “I’m so thick,” he murmured, shaking his head at himself with a smile. “I thought I really had left a book here.”

Martin laughed and helplessly fell in love with him all over again. “Oh, dear.”

“The whole day, I’ve been trying to remember which it was.”

Martin pulled him closer and put his forehead against his shoulder, unable to stop laughing. “I had thought I was so obvious,” he managed to get out.

“To be fair, you were,” Sammy replied, and Martin heard the smile in his voice. “I’m just, as I said, rather thick.” Sammy’s hands rested on the small of Martin’s back. He nuzzled into Martin’s hair. His breath blew over the top of his ear. “But you know what? I was going to tell you this one way or another today.”

Martin didn’t know how else to respond other than turn his face and kiss Sammy on the cheek. 

“I was so scared,” Sammy said quietly. 

“And yet you’re here.”

“Yes. I’m here.” Sammy sighed and held Martin a little tighter. “And I’m not leaving.”


	5. Epilogue

“Can I confess something to you, Martin?”

“Sure.”

“The day we met, in the library — well, that anthology was not the only book that had anything by Cowley in it. I simply needed an excuse to talk to you.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, my eternal gratitude to Beth for the beta-read!
> 
> Pre-vampire Martin is strange territory indeed.


End file.
